


I Heard The Ancient Sighs Of Sadness

by Tiofrean



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Smut, Nightmares, Not our boys though, Past Character Death, Post-War of the Ring, So Mild It's Almost Non-existent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:40:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25783801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: During the time they have been together, they have usually spent their nights sharing the royal bed, and some occurrences have become quite perpetual. There are things that are pleasurable, like their slow reassuring kisses and small calming touches right before they fall asleep. There are less pleasurable things also, like the nightmares that strike during periods of exhaustion, brought by too much work and not enough leisure time to counter it.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	I Heard The Ancient Sighs Of Sadness

**Author's Note:**

> As always, my Faramir had some say in that - thank you Sheenaz! <3 
> 
> Enjoy!

The darkness is near cloying in those late hours on a midsummer night. Curtains billow near the window, the warm breeze that rocks them doing nothing to cool the room. Faramir lies awake and unable to sleep, even though he is tired from running arrangements for various dignitaries to spend their festival in the Citadel. The High Guest House is full and merry, their voices carrying through the night, an early celebration to start the holiday. Minas Tirith will be full tomorrow, vibrant with clashing colors and loud with merry songs. Elves and Dwarves will come, have already arrived in some cases, and among them, little Shire Folk will find their way to Merethrond, to partake in the first festivals marking a new era. 

‘Tis the age of peace and love, the beginning of the world without war. The realms of Gondor and Arnor are finally unified under one hand and there will be no more battles in the foreseeable future, not as long as Faramir can help it. The High King is of the same mind, even if he is quite unconscious right in that moment, lying just to Faramir’s left, oblivious to the quiet murmur of conversations that can be heard through the open windows. 

There is a shuffling movement that catches Faramir’s attention, and the steward looks at the king, seeing only the basic shape of him in the silvery light of Ithil. Aragorn is resting with his back to him, curled inwards as if protecting his midsection. He twitches slightly, a jerking motion accompanied by a small whimper, and Faramir considers pulling him closer, further away from the edge of the bed. 

During the time they have been together, they have usually spent their nights sharing the royal bed, and some occurrences have become quite perpetual. There are things that are pleasurable, like their slow reassuring kisses and small calming touches right before they fall asleep. There are less pleasurable things also, like the nightmares that strike during periods of exhaustion, brought by too much work and not enough leisure time to counter it. Such a nightmare must have a hold on his king now, Faramir thinks, watching as Aragorn jerks again, attempting to curl up even further. 

It pains him to see his love hurting, and he decides to act, like on so many other nights. He is always there when Aragorn’s dreams turn sour, always ready to soothe his king’s overwrought nerves.  It is easy to do in the middle of the night, almost mindless in its simplicity, as he slides closer, places himself halfway through the vast bed and reaches out to one naked shoulder.

Aragorn is bare from his waist up, his legs clad only in a set of loose sleeping pants, covered up to his hips in a light blanket. The air around them is warm, but Aragorn’s skin is chilled where Faramir’s fingers touch it, and he takes a hold and pulls his king back slowly, carefully dragging him closer until they are pressed back to chest, until he can feel Aragorn’s heartbeat thudding softly against his own ribs. 

The king mutters something incoherently, too low and disjointed for his steward to understand, and Faramir slips his arms around to his stomach, frowning when he feels the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Aragorn whimpers, trying to twist away, pushing his face into the pillow, one leg kicking out. It catches Faramir against his knee, which he ignores, simply moving it out of the way. He leans forward and kisses one pale shoulder, pressing his mouth to the scar he cannot see but can still clearly feel under his lips. A groan. A shift. More muttering.    
“Shhh…” He coaxes. “‘Tis just a dream.” Softly, slowly, whispered against shivering skin. Another whimper, this one turning into a moan at the end, and Aragorn jerks awake. 

He startles so badly that he tries to roll away at first, almost tearing himself out of Faramir’s arms, before he realizes just where he is and who exactly is holding him. Once he does, he settles back among the pillows, but his rapidly working throat is audible in the stillness of the room.    
“Shhh…” Faramir repeats, his hold finally slacking now that the king doesn’t try to get away anymore. Aragorn lies there stock still, shallow breathing rasping in and out as it passes through barely opened lips, and the steward knows that, if there was a bit more light, Aragorn’s eyes would be darting wildly across the room. 

“I’m-” the king tries, but his vocal cords are not working properly yet, and he has to clear his throat before speaking properly. “I’m awake,” he mutters, inhaling long and deep, letting the air out slowly. It doesn’t really help with relaxing his body, and he still lies there rigidly, every muscle tense in anticipation of an imagined attack. “I’m awake,” he repeats, when Faramir tightens his arms again, nuzzling at his neck and kissing the soft skin he finds there.    
“I know.” And he does, he is well aware that Aragorn’s insistence is not merely a statement of a fact, but a command also. 

His king doesn’t like his dignity flyed thus, and tries often to hide behind reassuring smiles and half-truths to cover his discomfort. _My leg is not as badly hurt as it looks. This is merely a bruise. I am not that tired yet. I am awake._ He knows that Aragorn doesn’t do it out of some misjudged haughtiness - his king is far too noble for his own good. He simply doesn’t want to worry his lover, and he despises every moment of sleep he takes away from his dear prince. It will take him a long time yet - Faramir thinks - to realize that the prince cares too much for him to just turn away when presented with such blatant white lies. 

Instead of dragging the topic out  when Aragorn’s heartbeat is still as erratic as a sparrow caught in a cage , he lets his hands roam, splaying his fingers over his king’s chest. There are small irregularities in its silky surface, thin ridges and tiny raises marking scars, and Faramir follows one with the very tip of his finger, until it curves away and disappears somewhere between the tangled sheets. This one is familiar, and Faramir has heard its story a few times, mostly in tentatively whispered parts. 

There is something weird about human nature, especially that of a warrior. The king has spent many years wandering through Middle-earth and fighting numerous enemies, and some of them have left him reminders of those encounters. Surprisingly, it seems that during the times of peace, it is more difficult to find sleep without foes waiting with their swords posed around every corner. Back in the day, Aragorn might have been able to drop off on the spot and sleep soundly through the night because sleep was scarce. Now though, when there’s no thrill of the fight, his mind conjures up imagined enemies, often coming to him from the past, just to torment him in the night. By a complete accident, Faramir once found out that talking about the battles long forgotten eased his king’s mind and nerves, providing him with a harmless thrill that could see him safely into the land of dreams. And so, the prince has started to ask him about his scars whenever a nightmare appeared, giving his king some harmless and easy to digest excitement, and learning some things about him in the process. 

There are some marks on Aragorn that he has yet to ask about, long and thick or small and thin. He finds one now, gentle fingers questing low until they slip over one pale thigh, encountering a sliver of suspiciously silky skin. It’s way smoother than the rest of the soft expanse, about the size of Faramir’s thumb, and is very old. The prince knows from many mutual explorations that it’s almost completely white and appears to be shining in the sunlight. Tilting his head and placing a longing kiss on Aragorn’s shoulder, he rubs his palm over the scar gently.    
“You’ve never told me about this one,” he inquires,  patiently pressing his lips to the naked skin again and again - a mindless caress to ease the passage of time.

The king shifts and takes a few deeper breaths, then relaxes so strongly that Faramir can feel the conscious effort behind it. His other hand, still jammed between the mattress and his king’s body, tightens its hold slightly. 

“My brothers took me riding once,” Aragorn starts. His voice is quiet even in the night, and its quality is of a man on his deathbed. It pains the steward to hear it so, but he knows well that it will become confident once more. “I was eleven or twelve. I couldn’t ride yet but they insisted on teaching me. It was good. We went out to the forest against Elrond’s wishes, confident that there would be no danger… Orcs never dared to cross Bruinen back then.” 

As the tale starts to unfold, so do Aragorn’s words. They gain strength and color, their tone more certain with every second. His confidence, so familiar in the High Halls of the Citadel, be it during audiences or feasts in Merethrond, slowly creeps back, and Faramir relaxes, resting his palm over the scar, adding a protective layer to it almost as if he could shield the spot from hurts long done and forgotten. 

“Of course,” the king goes on, “foxes are no orcs, and they pranced merrily in the undergrowth. One of them startled our horses when it darted across our path yipping loudly. Elladan managed to rein his mount in, Elrohir took only a small tumble to the ground, but I crashed down the ravine next to the road. My fall was stopped by a tree under which a bush grew. One of the branches was thick enough to, insead of bending under my weight, break off and dig right into my thigh.”    
“I take it Lord Elrond was not happy when you went back?” Faramir asks quietly, a note of amusement in his hushed voice. His lips are still close to Aragorn’s shoulder and he drags them lower, until he can bury his face between his king’s shoulder blades. 

“Actually, he was concerned,” Aragorn says after a longer moment. He shifts minutely, adjusting his position until he is comfortably resting mostly on his front. The new arrangement makes Faramir drape himself across his king’s back, which he does so naturally that it almost feels like the most logical conclusion. A wave covering the sand on a troubled coast,  a wolf curling over its injured mate… He leans forward and pushes his nose behind Aragorn’s ear, enjoying the content sigh it provokes.

“I was afraid he would punish me with another day in the library, so as I stood there in his study, I was more mortified by the prospect of boredom among thick books than by the blood trickling down my leg. To my surprise, Elladan took the blame without a word of protest, admitting that it was his idea that we ride out. I do not think Ada even heard him, so scared was he seeing my bloodied trousers.” There is a smile in Aragorn’s voice, a certain kind of fondness seeping into his words as he continues. “Men are much more tactile than Elves, and being a human child among the Eldar often meant that I wanted more than I could get. Elves don’t hug each other nearly as often as people do, preferring poetry to touch. I remember that Ada drew me to him and held me for so long that I finally started crying, but I could not tell as to the reason for it.” 

Hearing that, Faramir rearranges his limbs on instinct, wrapping his arms around Aragorn’s waist again, squeezing reflexively to keep him close. The king hums and tries to roll over, briefly fighting the embrace, before Faramir realizes what he is doing. The arms slack for just a couple of seconds, their protective circle closing again when Aragorn is settled once more, face to face with his steward.    
“Thank you,” the king whispers, and the darkness seems to be calm at last, a tension flowing out of it that neither had even noticed the presence of until it disappeared. 

“What did you dream of?” The prince asks, never letting him go, pushing himself even closer. Their foreheads are touching, their noses aligned, and Aragorn’s lips are radiating warmth against Faramir’s mouth, so small is the space between them. The king sighs heavily, a shiver running through him like a distant roll of thunder. Wordlessly, he picks one of Faramir’s hands, grabs the wrist and steers it to the side and further, until his fingers fan over the king’s spine and his palm can press right above a jagged, rough scar just over the small of Aragorn’s back. 

_ Amdir. _

Faramir knows that this wound was one of the most painful ones, and the mark it left bears a shadow of the suffering it brought. Amdir was one of Aragorn’s friends, a ranger like him, keeping the lands south of Bree safe and their inhabitants cared for. After numerous days spent in the ditches and neighbouring forests, he failed to show up at their meeting point, and Aragorn - known as Strider back then - grew concerned. He employed numerous people to get some news, but they all turned up empty-handed. Finally Aragorn chanced upon a young warrior who reported a strange activity in an abandoned bandit lookout. 

“You’ve never told me how he died,” the steward murmurs in a low voice. A shudder runs through Aragorn, and Faramir is ready to drop the subject which so obviously hurts his king. But his lover reins his emotions in somehow, a superhuman trait he has undoubtedly absorbed from Elves through years spent with them.    
“I killed him.”

The statement is loud in the almost silent room, and the prince could swear that even the merry-makers at Merethrond have fallen quiet in shocked anticipation. In a voice surprisingly steady for a man who is shivering like a leaf during a thunderstorm, Aragorn tells him what fate befell Amdir, seemingly shrinking where he lies, until his face is tucked securely under his prince’s jaw and his own arms are wrapped tightly around Faramir’s chest. He tells him of the desperate fight for Amdir’s life they could not undertake, for they had been too late with their rescue mission. He speaks long and hesitatingly about the prison deep in the caves, about the cold eyes that stared at him from behind iron bars. The bandits’ chief did not even try to stop them as they walked in, he simply turned and fled, leaving them with a nightmarish ghoul instead of Aragorn’s friend. 

“He had been stabbed by a Morgul Blade. Had we arrived earlier…” And the king drifts off, swallowing convulsively and blinking so rapidly, the flutter of his lashes makes Faramir’s heart squeeze painfully. The steward attempts - against all laws of nature - to pull him even closer, to mold them together somehow so that he can heal those despondent memories with love and affection.    
“This choice was not in your hands… You did what you could.” He tries to soothe the hurt, put a balm of logic over very rational fears, which obviously cannot work. Aragorn stifles a sob in his neck and shakes his head tiredly.    
“If I hadn’t been so focused on the Shire back then…” A faint sniffle and a long exhale follows, shaky though it is. “His face…  _ By Eru! _ Faramir… he looked like a walking, living  _ corpse! _ We tried to help him, but we were forced to defend ourselves… We managed to subdue him. There was something - something different from that ghastly visage - something hiding in his gaze, disappearing quickly. I knew there was no hope, Faramir. I knew then that I was watching as the last light of my friend died in his eyes. I couldn’t do anything else-”

Hot tears trickle down his chest, and Faramir decides to act, fearing for the man falling apart in his arms. He feels like the worst of scoundrels when he leans back - the handful of seconds that it takes to disentangle himself from the mess of interwoven limbs they have become is way harder than his attempt at retaking Osgiliath. Aragorn clings to him desperately, giving a pitiful moan of protest before he checks himself and, not wanting his king to clam up like the shells he had seen in Dol Amroth once, Faramir rearranges himself and leans in to kiss him deeply. 

Wounds sometimes fester when not cared for, and mental hurts can rot just as badly. The lacing of such is even worse than those physical ones, and the pain of it can easily bring on many nightmares and restless nights. Since they’ve had bad dreams and scorching tears already on that night, Faramir thinks, it is time for healing, and he moves forward, pushing Aragorn on his back.

He settles atop his king, pinning him to the mattress and anchoring him amidst the sea of ruffled sheets. He never once breaks the kiss, savoring the connection, his heart leaping happily in his chest when Aragorn relaxes finally, both kingly hands finding their place around his back. 

The act lacks any elegance when it comes - an uncoordinated jostling of hips and heated grinding that has no right to be as pleasurable as it feels. They don’t really have the energy required for any of the more strenuous activities, and none of them are needed now. A distraction is best in its simplest form and, as Faramir reflects much later, uncomplicated methods work best in dire times. 

Soon, the king is once again at his side, with one arm slung across his chest and his face pushed close to Faramir’s ear. Aragorn’s breath tickles the delicate skin of his neck, and the prince clutches him a bit tighter, ensuring that no nightmares will come again till sunlight. Only after a small snore reaches him and the dear, royal body becomes boneless, does he let himself drift off for a few hours of peaceful rest. 


End file.
